by Jen Malone
It’s only about a fifteen-minute walk, but I’m on full sensory overload by the time I roll my suitcase past the penis statue and spy the blue awning of the Hotel Krasnapolsky.
I knew the bus tour would be first class all the way, but wow. The lobby looks like something out of a movie. I pass Elizabeth’s passport over to the desk clerk, snatch the key she hands me, and stumble to my room. It’s only eleven in the morning, but I feel like I’ve just spent a day chopping firewood (not that I’ve ever actually done this. But it looks tiring).
After five failed attempts to get the door unlocked, the little light finally clicks to green and I push it open, drop my bags on the floor, and flop face-first onto the bed.
And this is only the first morning.
I wake up several hours later, totally disoriented.
After a room service meal (a burger! Fries! Just like at home, despite the fact that they serve mayonnaise with the fries, instead of ketchup) and a soak in the ridiculously long bathtub (custom-fitted for the ridiculously giant Dutch people), I’m feeling . . . I don’t actually know what I’m feeling. My internal body clock is so screwed up it seems like midnight even though it’s four p.m., and somehow being on the other side of the world is almost this physical sensation where I can just sense every bit of the distance in my bones. Plus, I can’t even wrap my head around the suckitude of not having my binder and phone. There may be canals and cobblestones and museums and streetcars out my window, but at the moment I just want my mom.
Or Elizabeth. Well, it’s not so much that I want her, because I’m still incredibly pissed at her, but I do have to face facts and admit that I need her. I’m counting on her having backups of her backups of all the material in my missing binder and overnighting them to me STAT.
I grab the card that has directions for placing international calls off the top of the phone and when I uncover the keypad beneath I see the message light blinking. No one else knows I’m here, so it could only be Elizabeth, calling to tell me how sorry she is and how badly she underestimated me. I pick up the receiver and push the button. Immediately, Elizabeth’s voice is in my ear.
“Hey, Bree! If you’re listening to this, you must be in your hotel. I hope the flight went well. Listen, I’m not a fan of the way things went down at the airport, but I understand that you were really nervous about the flight and the trip, so let’s not worry about it, okay? I just wanted to say congratulations on getting there and I hope you’re having an amazing time so far. Don’t stress out—this trip is going to be so good for you and will totally expand your horizons and all that. You’ll see! If you need anything, I’ll be standing by my cell phone, ready to help. I’ll even sleep with it, so call day or night. Talk to you soon! Bye!”
Um . . .
I play the message again. I guess someone could listen to it and think, Oh, she’s being nice and supportive, but that’s not what I hear. “Congratulations on getting there” sounds a little like “Wow, I did not think you would get there in one piece and that deserves major kudos” and “I’ll even sleep with it” kind of sounds like “Odds are one million percent that you’re going to have an emergency, so I’ll just be here ready and waiting to bail your ass out.”
And what the actual hell with the whole “you were nervous, so let’s not worry about it”? Is she trying to say I didn’t have the right to be angry with her or to storm off? What if I don’t want to forget about it?
It’s one thing for me to have doubts about all of this, and especially about my own abilities, but for her to have them too makes me feel like shit. She’s supposed to be my cheerleader.
Plus that whole “expand your horizons” comment. Fine, so I’ve never left home before . . . or really wanted to. It’s not like I’m missing the sense-of-adventure gene, it’s just that, well, I might be missing the sense-of-adventure gene. I like things predictable and familiar and safe and easy. So what? That’s practical, is what that is. I don’t happen to see that as the character flaw my sister so very obviously does.
I don’t know why I ever had any thoughts that doing this tour for my sister would bring us closer. All it’s doing is showing me how totally different we are. And how very little she knows me . . . or wants to. It seems like she just wants to fix me, or turn me into some mini version of her.
Well, you know what? Not. Gonna. Happen.
Although this means I can’t ask her for help. I really can’t call her in tears and tell how I’ve monumentally messed things up right from the start. She’ll fix it. Of course she will. But she’ll never, ever forget it. I don’t even know if I care about having her respect, but . . . yes I do. I totally do. She’s my big sister, whom everyone has always compared me to my whole life, and I’ve always fallen short in those comparisons. If I call her now, it’s just one more example of Elizabeth being perfect and Aubree being the screwup.
I drop the phone in the cradle.
I pick it back up. I do have to call her, because otherwise she’ll freak out. But I don’t have to mention the binder. I’ll call her and tell her everything is perfect. Maybe rub it in a teeny-tiny bit how ah-mazing Europe is and drop an oh-so-innocent question about her court case. It’s totally passive-aggressive and borderline babyish, but, after all, aren’t I the baby in the Sadler family? I’d hate to disappoint.
This is probably going to cost a small fortune, but I don’t care even a little bit. I listen to the strange double ring and try to imagine Elizabeth lounging in her bed, reading some boring Russian classic novel even though she’ll never have assigned summer reading ever again. Picturing her room gives me a sudden lump in my throat as I calculate just how many thousands of miles away I am.
My mother answers. Why is my mother answering Elizabeth’s cell?
“Um, hi, Mom. Where’s Elizabeth?”
“Bree? Are you at the camp? Why didn’t you call me the minute your plane landed? You sound funny. Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you? Where are you calling from, anyway? The number that popped up is all weird.”
Yes, please, Mom. Could you catch the next transatlantic flight, pretty please? I take a deep breath and start spinning a doozy of a lie.
“I’m totally great! I’m here at the camp and everything’s great. The kids are really great and Madison’s already introduced me around to everyone, which is great. It’s just . . . great!”
I wonder if she’ll pick up on the fact that I said great about eight times in the span of four seconds. But she just laughs and says, “Oh, honey, that sounds fun.”
“You know it! The best!” I invent some quick details about the cabins and the drive to the camp and hope my mother buys it all. She seems to. Finally I ask, “Um, Mom, could I talk to Elizabeth now?”
“Oh, sweetheart, she’s in the shower. I just love that you girls have gotten so close these last few weeks. I know she’ll be thrilled that you asked for her. Do you want me to have her call you back?”
No. No, this is perfect. Mom can tell her I arrived safely “at camp” and I won’t need to be fake and pretend our fight at the airport didn’t mean anything to me when she’s so obviously over it already.
“That’s okay. Actually, I had to borrow the camp director’s satellite phone because my cell doesn’t get any reception out here in the woods, and I should get it back to her. I’m guessing this is costing a fortune so I’ll probably just stick to letters from here on out, okay?” There. Hopefully that explains away the international phone number on the caller ID and my lack of further communication. I don’t know what numbers satellite phones use, but I’m betting Mom doesn’t either. Plus, Madison has enough letters and postcards already written and signed by yours truly to get through the whole trip.
“How am I going to survive without hearing my girl’s voice every day?” I try not to groan as Mom adds, “But as your dad keeps reminding me, my baby is all grown up now and I’m just going to have to deal with my empty-nest syndrome. At least I’ll have Elizabeth here until it’s time for you to come
back. I’m glad you’re having fun. Oh, and Aubree?”
I pause.
“Don’t forget to use bug spray, sweets. If you start to run low, just send a postcard and I’ll ship you more.”
I mumble something in agreement; then Mom signs off with her typical “Love you!” to which I reply with my equally typical “Loveyoubye,” so ingrained by now it comes out as all one word, and place the receiver back in the cradle.
I fall back on the bed. I dodged a bullet not having to talk to Elizabeth, but it does still leave me with the problem of: no binder = no tour information.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force a few deep breaths. It doesn’t help in the least. I’m just working up the energy to stand and do something, anything, to try to figure out where to go from here when the phone rings. Dammit, I told Mom not to have Elizabeth call me back. Then again, clearly Elizabeth wouldn’t trust that I actually made it in one piece. Of course she’d need to hear it with her own ears. I snatch the phone off the receiver and huff, “I told Mom you didn’t need to call me back!”
A deep, warm voice with a whole lot of amusement in it barely misses a beat before responding, “Oh, but you know Mom these days. She’s always so distracted. Between her quest for that Mrs. America crown and the beekeeping operation she started in the attic, who can blame her for forgetting to pass along a message here and there.”
Wait. What? The voice is American and most definitely male. He sounds young. Well, not little-kid young but more my-age young. Which makes . . . no sense.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I think maybe you have the wrong room.”
“Oh, no, that was just me trying to be funny and clearly failing miserably. Let’s start over like boring people this time. Hello, is this Elizabeth?”
“No, it’s Au—” Oh crap! It is Elizabeth. Or at least, it is Elizabeth according to anyone who would possibly have this number. “I mean, yes. Yes, this is Elizabeth Sadler. Sorry. Um, jet lag.”
I try to laugh it off, and thankfully there’s no hesitation on the other end when the boy responds with an easy laugh and, “Yeah, jet lag is the worst. Hey, so this is Sam. Of At Your Age Adventures Tours?”
I swallow and manage, “Hi. Hey. I mean, hello. At Your Age Adventures. Right. Hi. So, yeah. Everything here is really perfect. Just perfect. More than perfect, actually. Top-notch.”
Shut UP, Aubree!
Another chuckle from the boy at the other end of the phone. “Okay, then. Glad to hear all is ‘top-notch.’” His voice is definitely teasing, but not in a mean way. At least, I don’t think so. I exhale and try to force myself to calm down as Sam continues. “It’s just that you missed your check-in call and Bento is waiting for you downstairs now, so we wanted to make sure you’d arrived in one piece and didn’t, I don’t know, maybe get distracted in one of those Amsterdam coffeeshops.”
Check-in call? Bento? I don’t know anything about any of this. Maybe I should suck it up and call Elizabeth for the backup binder information after all. Maybe winging it is a monumentally stupid Plan B. Besides, having Elizabeth lose respect for me would be way better than having Elizabeth hate me because I mess things up so badly that the whole debacle blows up in both our faces and she loses her job with the congressman.
“Oh, no. Nope,” I tell Sam. “I had my coffee at the airport.” I need to get him off the phone so I can call Elizabeth pronto, but he probably already thinks I’m a total spaz from this conversation. Might as well make an attempt to sound normal first, so I don’t leave him with a bad impression.
Sam’s chuckle is a full-blown laugh this time. “Um, Elizabeth?”
“Yeah?” It’s so, so weird to answer to that. I wonder if I’ll be used to it by the end of the trip.
“You are aware that ‘coffeeshop’ is a euphemism for a place you can legally smoke marijuana in Amsterdam, right?”
Oh. Ooooh. “I . . . of course. Yes, sure. I totally knew that.”
Sam’s voice is warm as he answers, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. After all, you are the tour guide.”
“Right,” I answer, trying to sound confident. “That I am.”
“Well, Tour Guide Elizabeth. I should probably let you go meet your bus driver in the lobby. I’ll text him and let him know you’re headed down now. Sound good?”
Bento is the bus driver! Okay, this feels like progress. And actually, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, but the bus driver, Bento, will definitely have all the information I need to start the tour. Granted, it might not be as detailed as Elizabeth’s binder (I don’t think the entirety of Wikipedia is as detailed as Elizabeth’s binder) but he’ll obviously know where we’re headed and when. I’m pretty positive I can get it out of him without letting him catch on that I don’t have a freaking clue about either.
I suddenly realize Sam is still on the phone, waiting for me to respond.
“Sure, sounds good.”
The hint of laughter is still in his voice as he says, “Nice ‘meeting’ you, Elizabeth. We’ll talk soon.”
“Sure, okay. You too. Okay, then, loveyoubye.” I put the phone back in the cradle and then I pause as my words replay in my head.
Oh God.
I did not just tell a total stranger—my employer, no less—that I loved him. Did not. I roll over and scream into the sheets of my bed.
Maybe he didn’t hear me. He probably didn’t. I was halfway to hanging up as I said it so the phone was already moving away from my mouth. And even if he did, I bet he thinks he just misunderstood me. After all, I’m guessing he’s seen Elizabeth’s file and he’d never believe someone as pulled together as her transcript indicates could ever be such a mess.
And she’s not.
Aubree, on the other hand? Oh yeah. Aubree is exactly that much of a mess.
EIGHT
I don’t see anyone looking like a bus driver (not that bus drivers have a particular look, just that no one seems to be glancing around as if they’re supposed to be meeting someone) when I get to the lobby five minutes later, so I flip through the postcards outside the gift shop while I wait. I find one showing the penis statue outside the lobby doors, which will not only make Madison laugh but also represents basically the only tourist site I’ve seen.
I buy it and scribble Wish you were here (instead of me) on the back and walk it over to the front desk. The clerk assures me he will attach the proper stamps, post it, and charge it to my room. The service here is even better than Mom’s, and that’s saying a lot.
I plop into a chair and try not to stare down every male who enters the lobby. A moment later, a man comes through the doors, blowing across the lid of a steaming cup of coffee (which he got where? The pot shop?), and crosses the lobby straight toward me. “Elizabetta?”
He’s a stocky Hispanic man who’s about in his forties. He has puffy black hair and a healthy-sized mustache. When he smiles, which he does now, he looks like one of the Super Mario brothers.
“Elizabetta?” he repeats.
I stand and stick out my hand. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Encantado.”
“Oh, sorry, I don’t speak . . . um, Italian?”
He stares at me blankly. I stare at him blankly.
“Español?” he asks.
Oh. Spanish. Nope, don’t speak that either.
I hold my palms up and grin. “Señorita? Margarita? Gracias? Uno, dos, tres, cuatro?”
I’ve just given him the sum total of my Spanish vocabulary. More blank stares.
Then he begins speaking rapidly. “No lo entiendo. La empresa de turismo me dijo que sabías español. Yo no sé nada de inglés. Estamos en un lío, Elizabetta.”
I blink slowly, then point to myself. “Um, si, Elizabetta.” That was the only word I understood of that stream he just spewed at me. At least I think he said Elizabeth.
He shakes his head and begins mumbling. “Primero me encargan a ese grupo de turistas a última hora. Después me di
cen que solo tengo dos días para prepararme y ahora me dan una guía con la que no puedo ni entenderme. Por favor! ¿Cómo se me ha ocurrido aceptar otro viaje después del último desastre?”
I am beginning to get the distinct impression that this bus driver does not speak any English. I swallow as I remember who minored in Spanish in college: Elizabetta. I mean, Elizabeth. It must have been on her application to the tour company.
I fall back into my chair and blink a few more times. And then . . .
I laugh.
I laugh so hard I almost fall onto the blue-and-gold plush carpet in the lobby of the Hotel Krasnapolsky and I don’t even care. Tears stream down my cheeks as I peer up at the bus driver. Now it’s his turn to do some blinking. But then he cracks another smile. And then a full grin. Pretty soon he’s laughing in a chair alongside me and neither of us acknowledge all the posh people checking in who are shooting us sideways looks.
I stick out my hand again.
“Elizabetta.”
He nods and holds my hand in his. Pointing with his other hand, he gestures at himself and says, “Bento.”
We might have no other way to communicate beyond charades, but at least I’m no longer alone in the world.
The next morning, my little circle of compadres (as it turns out, I’m remembering Spanish words left and right. Thank you, Dora the Explorer) expands even more when, at breakfast, I meet my band of jolly travelers.
Bento and I are the first ones to the hotel restaurant, which is this giant atrium with a ceiling of all glass windows where everything from the chairs to the chandeliers drips in gold. It could be a tourist attraction all on its own.
I prearranged my arrival time with Bento using an elaborate game of Pictionary. I still have no idea what we’re supposed to be doing today, but I finally did remember enough to know that the activities are all in Amsterdam because we don’t leave the city until tomorrow. There is a stack of brochures from the hotel lobby in the empty seat next to me and I’m planning to do my best at winging it.
